


Magneville

by niichts



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Alternate Universe - Human, BAMF Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Bad Parent Lucifer Magne, Cinnamon Roll Charlie Magne, Gen, Human, Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Charlie Magne, Human Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Human Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Husk Has a Heart (Hazbin Hotel), Husk is Bad At Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Inspired by BioShock, Lucifer Magne Being a Jerk, M/M, Protective Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Veteran Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28853883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niichts/pseuds/niichts
Summary: "Magne family castle. Fetch the girl and we will pay you whatever you want." That was the deal.If Husk knew he'd be wandering through the literal gates of Hell to get it done, he might have considered asking for extra.
Relationships: Angel Dust/Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Husk & Charlie Magne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Magneville

**Author's Note:**

> A new work very loosely inspired by BioShock Infinite. If you haven't played it, I suggest you do as it is, in academic terms, fucking sweet. 
> 
> I noticed all the tags I wanted to add were all pre-suggested, so clearly my ideas for this aren't going to be terribly original. What can I say, I must be one of many who loves the grumpy-but-loving-cynic trope.

It was about nine o clock when Husk was forced to admit he wasn’t going to find anything. He’d used the advantage of the summer night as best he could, but now it was simply too dark to look any further into the trees and he needed to make sure he could actually get _back_ , too.

  


No doubt it was going to be hard finding this exact spot again tomorrow, as well. Every tree looked the same and there was no other form of vegetation – just miles and miles of mud and roots sprawling everywhere across an uneven surface.

  


He dryly snorted to himself as he turned on his heel and started traipsing back in what he hoped was the direction of the car. _If_ he came back tomorrow, anyway. The job was looking more and more like a hoax, though what else could he have expected from a single postcard with no name and a highlighted segment of a map?

  


He’d noticed the thing a week ago, once his head had cleared and he’d stopped throwing up into the sink for the day: a painting of a sunny town square, with a gas station, intersecting roads and quaint little shops either side. It didn’t exactly stand out; the art was in the predictably dull fashion of a holiday souvenir and it looked like any other place. The map was no different from his own, except the circled town name: “ _Magneville_ ”.

  


It was a simple name, most likely related to the founder. Or more likely, whoever it was that had edited in a destination that didn’t exist. Real funny. Maybe they were out there in trees, spying on him and sniggering to themselves.

  


Let them spy. Let them see what a pathetic man looked like.

  


He reached the clearing just as thunder rumbled overhead and he set eyes upon his piece-of-crap Volkswagen. He’d been played for a fool many times in his life and it had always ended with someone getting hurt. But never had he been tricked into driving to the middle of nowhere and being left with little to no petrol.

  


Heavy drops of rain pounded against the back of his neck as the wind picked up and the last of the light seemed to leave the world. Clearly it was time to go.

  


The only question was where.

  


Presumably, he could drive on aimlessly and hope to come across a hotel. If not, the car was always an option. What it lacked in being an efficient vehicle, it made up for with seats that fell all the way back and he’d definitely slept in worse places.

  


The engine came to life after the third turn of the keys. Today was clearly not his lucky day.

  


Listening to the bonnet rattle as the engine tried not to choke on its own fumes, he reached into the glove compartment as raindrops began to batter off the windscreen. Looked like a storm.

  


It took a bit of rummaging – irritating, seeing as how there was nothing else in there besides his trusty six-barrelled revolver – and eventually managed the dig the card out. He’d already slid the revolver into his shoulder holster, a move so normal for him that it almost didn’t register. The card, he examined the back of as if something would magically change if he fixated on it long enough. There was the fragment of map with the non-existent landmark and a single message under in pen: _Magne family castle. Fetch the girl and we will pay you whatever you want._

  


Snorting to himself, he crumpled it up and shoved it into his pocket. What an idiot he’d been. Like some rich fella would contact _him_ of all people and offer ungodly amounts of money to find some random woman. Some random woman they hadn’t even bothered attach a description or photo of.

  


He kicked the car into gear and slowly started heading down the rock-laden country road, the windscreen wipers squeaking in protest whilst the rain just got heavier. Everything looked just as unremarkable as it had been ten minutes ago, except this time the growing darkness meant he could keep track of little more than the bumps the car made as it passed over a rock.

  


He almost went off the track a few times, but eventually trundled his way back to the road, surrounded by farmer’s fields. He could head right, back in the direction of Savannah, or he could turn left and venture further into the unknown for the evening.

  


Despite everything, he turned left.

  


And was rewarded a few miles down the road by a billboard and the lights of a building.

  


The car park was empty and he could only see it thanks to his headlights, spanning about an acre or three and looking slightly foreboding. A few hundred moths had congregated around the streetlamps in front of every few spaces and a drinks cup slowly rolled by in the rain.

  


It gave way to an oak wood building, with four floors and illuminated only by a single lamp over the front doors. Every other part: the balconies, the chimneys, even a few windows – looked carelessly tacked on, as if assembled by a giant child with a life-sized doll’s house. There were the beginnings of a fence, but the vast majority had given away to weeds and brambles. All that remained at a quick glance was the skeleton of a gateway and a faded overhead sign.

  


“ _Hazbin Hotel._ Yep, looks like a lovely place.”

  


Whatever the name, it still seemed a damn sight cosier than the hurricane he was currently stranded in. Bracing himself, he flung the driver’s side door open and made a run for it, almost blown to the side by the gale-force wind he’d so far managed to escape.

  


Ignoring how the puddles soaked their way into his shoes, he jogged over and pushed the front door’s handle. It opened surprisingly smoothly, not even creaking as it gave way to a rather warm lobby area.

  


It was decorated in a rustic fashion; a metal chandelier and a hearthrug by a wood burner. Not too big, but with enough space to walk around near the main desk.

  


The main desk with no-one behind it.

  


“Hello?” Husk called out. His voice echoed off the walls.

  


A slow melody caught his attention, crackly notes emanating from an old radio by the corner. As in, _really_ old. The kind of old he’d only ever seen in his childhood comics and history books. It was clearly a prized possession, wood panelling scrubbed within an inch of its life and a slight layer of grime by the dials giving away its true age.

  


Husk bent down and examined one of the dials, wondering whether the thing would just pop off if he tried to tune it a bit better. The incessant static in the background of the slow waltz was starting to get on his nerves. But he just gave it a glare in the end, a stream of warmth hitting the back of his neck and demanding more of his attention.

  


The source was a fireplace, burning angrily opposite the reception desk, which he had to admit warmed him up slightly. He felt no urge to sit down in one of the chairs, however. He wanted to check in and be out of the way as quickly as possible. And besides, it was far too hot for a summer night. His back started prickling uncomfortably, as it often did when the temperature reached a certain level like this.

  


Striding over to the check-in and hitting the bell with more force than necessary, Husk turned his back on it and gave the room a once-over. It was weird that he’d just noticed it, but the fireplace was the only source of light. The chandelier didn’t seem to have any bulbs attached to it, nor where there any on the ceiling. Hell, there weren’t even any candles. Perhaps whoever owned the place saw no problem in sitting ominously by the flames, but while Husk was no interior designer, he wouldn’t want to risk having a semi-inferno blazing within a wooden structure.

_“Hello there!”_   
  


“ _Jesus -!”_

His hand was almost at his holster before logic settled in and his brain finally realised that no, he wasn’t under attack. Rather, he was being grinned at by a skinny man in a burgundy waistcoat and black bow tie. Young, maybe in his late twenties and definitely skilled at sneaking up behind people. Or, alternatively, Husk was slipping as he got on in his age.

  


“Can I help you, sir?” the young man said simply, not the least bit apologetic about scaring the daylights out of a client.

  


Husk raised an eyebrow and was just about to respond when he was cut across.

  


“My name’s Alastor, by the way. A pleasure to meet you, quite a pleasure!”

  


Husk paused again, squinting slightly. The guy wasn’t _creepy_ per se, but none of what he said was sounding natural. He was used to disingenuous people, but this time around it was more like the kid was reading from a pre-prepared script than lying through his teeth.

  


“Great” Right now, he trusted the guy as far as he could throw him. Which was, to say, not at all. Maybe the car was the better option. “Look, do you know where I can find some place named Magneville?”

  


“A specific one, or did you just wake up this morning with a craving?” Alastor smiled. “Ha-ha!”

  


Who the hell literally said the words _ha-ha_? Husk could have sworn the radio played canned laughter like it was precisely timed, but right now he was more concerned about getting an answer and then getting as far away as possible from this freak.

  


“That a yes or a no?”

  


Alastor pulled a fake pouty face, as if the line of enquiry had just spoiled his fun.

  


“Grumpy. But yes. I do know of such a place.”

  


“Where?”

  


“Snappy tonight, aren’t we? It’s around the back. Or rather, it _was_.”  
  


_“Was?”_

  


“Mining disaster, 1858. Place exploded; town mostly destroyed. They planted the forest around it rather than spend money knocking down the rest of the buildings. Tragic” he added, in a tone that implied it was anything but.

  


Husk’s heart plunged into his stomach. “So what are you doing here, then?”

  


“Why, I’m running one of the few remaining businesses, of course! It’s a family tradition, if you will, and it gives me quite an expansive space to live in whilst my broadcasts are on.”

  


“Looks busy.”

  


Alastor chuckled, this time more like a real human being. “Oh no, I fully admit it can be a bit empty at times, especially regarding some… _recent_ events. We used to have a few tourists come to see the ruins, but… I think they believe the place is haunted by now.”

  


Husk didn’t know of a radio broadcast that came from around this place and didn’t really care, either. He looked down at his cracked watch; it was almost ten. He needed to get to sleep before the pressing urge for alcohol came again, so it was high time he just bit the bullet and gave this guy some business. 

  


“I’m looking to book a room” he said, cutting to the nub of the matter. 

  


“Oh, you are, are you?” Alastor hummed, lips pursed as if fighting the urge to laugh. “And just how long do you plan on staying?”

  


“How long?” he repeated blankly. “One night.”

  


“Ah, I see. That may be something of an issue, sir. No-one’s lasted beyond midnight here.”

  


And just like that, Husk had had it.

  


“So, what? Is this some haunted-house attraction you’ve got going on here?”

  


“Something like that.”

  


“Stop talking in riddles and answer the question.”

  


Alastor’s smile twitched slightly, but remained fixed.

  


“This guest house remains open thanks to the generous financial help of an outside donor. I haven’t had someone stay here in five years until you walked through my door.”

  


Husk couldn’t summon enough effort to pretend to be surprised.

  


“The last fellow was a city planner. One Mister Kevin Connolly. Perfectly pleasant, if somewhat on the… rotund side. Pays for the night, goes to bed and when I go to check on him in the morning, he’s hanging from the ceiling by the neck.”

  


Alastor put his hands in his pockets and sniffed, lost in his memories.

  


“The time before _that_ , it was a hitchhiker travelling through to New Orleans. Found _him_ in the bath; slit wrists. Nifty had one had a hell of a job cleaning all that up. After the police left, of course.”

  


Husk had no clue who this Nifty person was, but he was fairly certain these events weren’t connected. Either this was an elaborate set-up for a themed stay, or it was just a popular suicide spot.

  


“I’ll be sure not to do anything like that, then” he grunted, and stretched his hand out. “Now, about that key…”

  


Alastor raised an eyebrow and made no move to oblige him. “Then, before _that_ – “

  


“Yeah, I get the picture.”

  


“I don’t think you do” Alastor grinned, leaning across the desk. It wasn’t exactly threatening, but something about it made Husk temporarily reconsider his next sentence.

  


“There’s been two or three deaths in your guest room since you opened. I get it. Now, how about I get the key and I can be out of your hair.”

  


Alastor chuckled and reached for something underneath his side of the desk. “ _Two or three_ , he says. Try _sixty-five_ , my good fellow!”

  


Husk blinked.

  


“Sixty-five. You’re _shitting_ me.”

  


Alastor shrugged, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather, before putting down a manilla folder.

  


“I know. Quite a lot, isn’t it? I’ve obtained a newspaper clipping from every time there was another suicide. I’ll be surprised if the police don’t have us on speed dial!”

  


Ignoring the rather ill-advised joke, Husk peered at the scraps of paper that were placed in front of him, one by one.

  


“The causes of death tended to rage, my friend. We’ve had overdoses, hangings, heart attacks, stroke, drowning –“

  


“ _Drowning?_ ”

  


“Oh, yes. One Miss Abigail Brady drowned in her bowl of vegetable soup.”

  


“That’s, uh…that’s hard to do, how did she manage that?”

  


“How indeed?” Alastor simpered, nudging the corresponding article towards him. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  


_Disturbing_ , was what Husk called it.

  


“And why are you telling me all this?”  
  


“It’s something of a legal requirement now. The police forced us to start handing out warnings to anyone who came here under threat of closure. They can’t find any reason as to why the deaths keep happening – I can’t tell you many times they’ve accused _me_ – but the single link between all of the cases is that they all died around midnight. Their forensics department proved it.”

  


Husk looked back at the article in his hand. The picture was the back of a young lady’s head, the rest obscured by a porcelain bowl with a gooey mixture pouring over the sides. Until now he’d been willing to discard the whole thing as the ramblings of some merry lunatic, but with the evidence right in front of him…

  


What was it that made these people all decide that their lives weren’t living anymore? Was it something… supernatural?

  


He put the thought down with extreme prejudice. Goddamn it, _no_! He’d witnessed real horrors in life, lost real friends in ways that were much worse than a simple hanging…he didn’t believe in crap like this and he wasn’t about to start now.

  


“Look, just give me the key.”

  


“My friend – “

  


“The _key_.”

  


“Don’t you think –“

  


“Listen, I’ve been in a war” Husk snapped, the last of his patience running out. He decided to put it down to tiredness. “I saw boys as young as sixteen get slaughtered like cows just by standing next to a bush that turned out to be a camouflaged enemy. I once brushed my goddamn teeth near the corpse of a squad mate who was killed in an ambush just the night before. So do you know why I can stay in your spooky old room, pal?”

  


Alastor remained silent, the grin ever present.

  


“Because I know that bogey-men _don’t exist_. And even if they did, there’s sure as hell no God to protect us from them.”

  


A palpable silence followed his outburst, the only sound being the ticking of the clock.

  


“Well. I cannot talk you out of this?” Alastor asked pleasantly as if nothing had changed.

  


“I think we’ve at least got _that_ much straight, yeah.”

  


The smile stretched so wide Husk could almost see the gums.

  


“Very well” Alastor said, withdrawing a key from the wooden box. He handed it over and Husk tried to ignore the coincidental, if ominous, clap of thunder that rumbled outside as he took it. Only then did he realise that his brain didn’t think he was under attack because it already felt like he was _about_ to be.

  


“Room 365” he simpered. “We like to fill up the rooms from the top down. Hope you don’t mind.”  
  


Yes, Husk _did_ mind, but he wasn’t going to let this pathetic jape get to him. Clenching his jaw and giving nothing more than a nod as a goodbye, he trudged over the darkened staircase and readied himself for another bout of walking.

  


“Have a very good night!” Alastor called after him as he began the climb. The words were once again innocent enough, but there was something behind them that Husk couldn’t pin down and at the same time would never wish upon his worst enemy.

  


*

Floor three was much too similar to that of a retirement home in Husk’s opinion. The corridor was tightly cramped, with what possibly may have once been a colourful carpet (one or two millennia ago) stretching down a seemingly endless length of space. And yet again, the architect had seemingly decided to cover every area of brick with cheap-looking wooden panels like there was no tomorrow.

  


  1. 356\. 357.



  


He made a conscious effort to avoid an abandoned plate of food near number 361. It was a simple white thing, with gravy spread thinly across every available part of the surface, a few peas dotted her and there and a single piece of beef acting as witness to what was most likely half a family of flies crawling all over it.

  


  1. 364.



  


  1.   




Inserting the key into the lock, he took a deep breath and only just noticed that he was sweating somewhat under the dim lighting. It would only be a matter of time before the prickling started, so he decided not to remain apprehensive any longer and opened the door.

  


It was pitch black inside, save for a sliver of moonlight shining around what he assumed were a pair of curtains. Grasping a light switch with his spare hand, he flicked it on, expecting to see something set out to look like an Agatha Christie novel.

  


Instead, what he got was a single living area, with surprisingly modern linoleum flooring and a television mounted on the wall. A cracked, red leather sofa faced it whilst being backed up against the stark white wall by a pearly-grey coffee table. There was quite a decent amount of space between the three items and the attached kitchen, which consisted of a fridge, a sink and a bin all built into a set of “c”-shaped benches covering the length of the opposite far wall.

  


Husk took all of this in. It certainly hadn’t been what he’d expected. Either the rooms had been recently renovated, or someone had fired the guy who designed the corridor and replaced him with someone who possessed basic intelligence. Either way, it was definitely something different. But good or bad?

  


He took one last look around the main area.

  


“This is the most haunted place in the entire county” he said to himself blankly, before shaking his head, too tired to roll his eyes, “What a loada crap.”

  


And with that, he slammed the door behind him before immediately heading in the direction of the minibar. He didn’t know what the pricing was and he didn’t care. Hell, if he was going to die a supposedly horrific death here, he might as well make sure he wouldn’t feel it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments, however brief. It's always great motivation for me to continue if I know people enjoy reading it and want to see more. 
> 
> 'Til next time


End file.
